Grey Area

This is me getting started.

I have now started.

After intending to write something thoughtful and coherent, I stared at the blank page for a long time. My laptop battery is only so capacious. So I've started anyway.

Once you start, you can change direction. The starting is the hardest part. And the stopping, but we'll get to that later. I've started. I can go anywhere I like now.

***

In a sock drawer, behind the socks, was a box. If you were to remove the socks, and the sock-related accessories (darning needle, sock suspenders, sock puppets), and open the box, you would be able to see its contents.

The box belonged to Brock Knox. Brock never removed the socks, because he already knew what was inside the box. He didn't need a reminder.

Brock was a locksmith. He knew his business inside and out, just as he knew the box. The locks on the box (and yes, there were multiple locks) could not be picked or cracked or prised open. The box was small, but the locks were strong.

But still, Brock used the sock drawer socks as extra protection. Brock Knox didn't take risks.

One morning, Brock returned home from work to find the contents of his sock drawer strewn across the floor. Brock was in shock.

He hurried over to check the drawer. He could sew himself another sock puppet any day of the week. Sock suspenders are cheap at the local market. But the box... the box was irreplaceable.

Brock reached into the back of the drawer, and was hugely relieved to find his fingers pressing against a box-shaped object. It was the box.

But when he removed the box from its drawer, he saw that it was open. The locks had yielded, the bolts slid into nothing but air.

The box was empty.

Brock Knox checked his clocks. He had three of them - all set to roughly the same time. He looked back at the box. He looked back at the clocks.

It was half past six in the evening. Brock picked up his phone, but didn't dial a number. He put the phone back down. He knew it was too late.

Somewhere, a thief - a master lock-picker - had the contents of Brock's box. The thief could be miles away. But Brock knew how to find him. Because the box's final lock was not made of metal. The final lock could not be picked.

The final lock was chicken pox.

And whoever had fought past the socks and locks to retrieve the box would be wearing their guilt all over their itchy skin.

***

You see? Anywhere. You just need to get started.

It's a grey, miserable day. Nearly the shortest day of the year. I need sunlight to function. I'm like a reverse vampire. I'm sick of winter already, and there's still months of it to go.

I might emigrate. But where to? Somewhere warm, but not too full of chatty restaurateurs. Some Shangri-La.

Hmm. I thought there would be an 'n' in restaurateurs. But apparently not.

I suppose it's easier to wait here until spring. I'll just set myself on fire to ward off the darkness.

Mood

I don't know. Anxious, I think.

Listening to

It's possible that my anxiousness might be related to this song. It's good though. Give it a few minutes to kick in.

Also, I've been listening to this:

Boy! I just had a scary moment when I thought I'd lost this post. Imagine! All this hard work! That whole box story alone could make me millions!

I certainly dodged that bullet. I'd better finish this before anything bad happens.

Reading

Not much

Watching

A man in a hoodie standing in the garden across the road. He looks suspicious, but then I'm sure he'd say the same about me. I mean, only one of us is spying on their neighbours, and it isn't Mr Hood over there.

Oh no, hang on. Some old people have just got out of a car. They're with him. He can't be suspicious. Old people don't hang around with suspicious people. They can smell it in the air with their sensitive tongues.

My apologies, Hood.

Playing

The "Write a Blog Post Before the Laptop Battery Runs Out" Game. I'm winning so far, but it could all change on the roll of the dice. (I once had a roll of the dice at a Las Vegas bakery. I bit down on it and lost seven teeth. Lucky.)

Eating

A sandwich, no dice, granary bed, M&S reduced fat tuna and sweetcorn sandwich filler, some smoothie and a big slice of fortune. Delicious.

Drinking

Oh, right. I suppose the smoothie goes down here. Though, is it really a drink? It used to be solid. It's a grey area. Delicious.

(Grey Area Smoothie Ingredients: John Major (remember him?), charcoal, one of those little aliens, two chunks of British sky, a dolphin and one pressed pencil)

***

I don't blame you if you never want to read this blog again. All I ask is that you do read it again.

Good afternoon.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 1

It was Saturday on Saturday. You may have noticed, due to the corresponding words.

It was also the day of our first gig, which I hadn't really thought much about, what with all the looking at things and nodding at animals that looked like they might have some kind of industry connection.

We walked around the city, and I went exploring on my own, not getting lost (which was a real boon for me - that's right: boon). I got knackered walking up hills and steps. I went up to Edinburgh Castle (though didn't go in). On the way, I saw what looked like police sniffer dogs. With them were some police. I heard some people speculating about a bomb threat, but I'm not sure that's what they were doing. Maybe someone had simply mislaid a pungent wallet.

While I was there, I went to get a smoothie in a little shop. There was something slightly off about the staff. They created the impression that they'd beaten and tied up the real smoothie shop staff in the back, and had been sent out front to make it look like everything was normal. They didn't seem to know how things worked, or where anything was. They also didn't know the names of any of the smoothies.

Which reminds me of a real pet peeve of mine (which in turn reminds me, I probably should have arranged for a neighbour to take care of my pet peeves while I was away - or have put them in some sort of peeve kennel).

It really annoys me when cafes have wacky names for their menu items, but then don't ever use them themselves. There's always a list of sandwiches or salads called The Morning Magician or The Wild'n'Crazy or The Foreigner or the Lightning Bolt Panini.

And you see these on the menu, and feel you have to call them by name. It's embarrassing, but you do it.

"Can I have one - uh - The Foreigner, and one Morning Magician please?"

And to compound the demeaningness (that's right) of the whole exchange, they say "which one's that?"

"The.. Morning Magician?"

"The what?!"

Then you point to the menu, and they say: "Ohhhh. Cheese and tomato. Why didn't you say so?"

YOU WERE THE ONES THAT NAMED THE PRODUCTS! AT LEAST ADHERE TO YOUR OWN STUPID RULES!

At the suspicious smoothie shop, I asked for the first one the menu, which was the (ugh) "Up and at 'Em!". But which they only knew as "the top one".

I didn't like that.

After smoothiegate (which I'll name for Alex - who loves the suffix "-gate"), I went to see a show by two lesbian poets. It seems like it might be a bit reductive to refer to them as that (I probably wouldn't describe going to see two black poets), but what're ya gonna do?

They were good. Though I feel intimidated by people with that level of self-belief and powerful annunciation.

They were performing in the spooky basement of our venue: The Banshee Labyrinth.

We had a look at our stage, which is a small cinema space. It was pretty cool.

Before our show started, we saw Jon do five good minutes in a weird gig at an adjacent venue, and we awkwardly left in the middle to go to our place.

(I should just say that any time I refer to awkwardness in this blog, it's only me that's awkward. I've almost made awkwardness into an art form, If you want someone to stand around making people feel uncomfortable, just give me a call - a call which will be so excruciating, you'll feel compelled to burn your phone.)

The audience for Gig 1 was good - most of the people there were friends of Jon's (though we had a few more people come in throughout the show).

The thing about being part of the Free Fringe is that it's free. (You may have noticed, due to the corresponding words.) So people float in and out, and you need to convince people to come in with sheer charm (or in my case, awkward standing in hallways). We don't have our flyers yet, so had to improvise with bits of paper and banter.

The show went well, I thought. I was pleased with my performance, which included some fun ad libs.

I've stopped doing one-liners in my set, as I found them a bit incongruous and embarrassing. Though I might try a few later in the run.

(I won't be reviewing my showmates' performances here, as that could be a bit weird. So just assume that they're always brilliant unless I say otherwise.)

All in all: a satisfying first show. It will be interesting to see how my mood and opinion of myself fluctuates throughout the week.

Well, I say interesting. I mean self-indulgent. Which is interesting to me, at least.

The Fruity Carpenter

We bought a smoothie-maker the other day. There are few things that can raise the spirits more than a good smoothie.

A bit of fruit juice, a banana, a bit of yoghurt, some frozen berries. Blend those mofos up, and you have yourself a drink that's healthy and invigorating! You feel superior when you're drinking a smoothie. You look at those poor saps eating solid fruit and think: "there but for the grace of God go I". Then slurp one down.

The smoothie is often quite lurid in colour. It looks like cartoon toxic waste. Delicious!

Another benefit is that the smoothie-maker is incredibly noisy. It sounds like the death rattle of a kamikaze lawnmower. I like using loud appliances. It makes me feel like a real man. Some people use a jigsaw or a lathe. I use a smoothie-maker. I'm a fruity carpenter. The ingredients are my wood, and the smoothie is my chest of drawers.

("But you can't keep socks and pants in a smoothie.")

Shut up and drink your drink! MMM, SMOOTHIE!

("...")

SAY IT!

("Uh...")

SAAYYYYY IIIITTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!

("mm. smoothie...")

YEEEAHHHH!

Nowadays the idea of 5 fruit and veg a day is a joke.

5?! I can down 5 in a heartbeat. It's too easy. I've started creating my own fruit rules.

I can only eat multiples of 5, though. I'm not an animal. I had 15 yesterday. A wry 15.

If I get to the end of the day and I've had, say, 13 portions of fruit and veg, just before I go to bed I have to regurgitate three portions of fruit. No more, no less.

Those are the rules.

THOSE ARE THE RULES!!

(I've been told all this extra fruit is making me erratic and unreasonable. Anyone who has suggests that IS DEAD NOW! SMMMOOOOOOOOOOOTHHIIIIIEEEEEEEESSSSSSSS!)

The smoothie-maker came with a smoothie recipe book. We haven't made any of those yet. Some sound quite good, but some seem a bit strange:

Bananapalm Surprise

Two bananas, a cup of pineapple juice, a twist of lime, and an ounce of napalm - burns off those extra calories!

Orange Juice Smoothie

One cup of orange juice, one cup of orange juice, half a cup of orange juice, and a pinch of orange juice (DO NOT BLEND THE INGREDIENTS. POUR IT STRAIGHT INTO THE GLASS.)

The 'Gentle Ben'

One cup of apple juice, a ripe pear, a tablespoon of probiotic yoghurt, eight ounces of bear rind, and the hope of a child.

Normal, Everyday Smoothie

Your enemies will know you mean business. The whirring blade is the Reaper. No more jokes. No more snide remarks. Just pure justice. The screams, the whirring, the frothy taste of righteousness. (Add lemon juice to taste)

The Bachelor

Baked beans and cigarettes.

***

*Recipes reprinted by the kind permission of the good people at Morphy Richards.*